


The Thief's Joker

by Liara_90



Series: Scoops of Gelato [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Backstory, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Film Noir, First Meetings, Friendship, Gambling, Love at First Sight, Nudity, POV Third Person, Poker, Pre-Canon, Roman Being All Protective of Neo, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 08:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5620564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/pseuds/Liara_90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A noir-style story about the life of Roman Torchwick, and how it became intertwined with a girl of very unusual talents.</p><p>Gelato (Roman/Neo), but probably not how you think. A oneshot in two chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _There must be some kind of way outta here_   
>  _Said the joker to the thief_   
>  _There's too much confusion_   
>  _I can't get no relief_

Roman Torchwick was fifteen when he was kicked out of a casino for the first time.

Not, you might reasonably have concluded, for being a minor, as the places he went to didn't even care to check his definitely-not-fake ID. No, Roman Torchwick's sin was counting cards, and casinos were unforgiving gods. At first the young Roman had been convinced he'd secretly acquired superpowers, that his escapes to a truly-decrepit library with its arcane game theories books would pay remarkable dividends. His mind had no trouble deconstructing games into their mathematical components; tallying, memorizing, calculating, strategizing - intellectual feats that would have astonished his teachers had there been any left to notice.

But wee Roman, for all his smarts and savvy, didn't exactly recognize just how little a secret his was. The game was up in a matter of hours, the dealers far too astute and experienced. By the end of the week he was blacklisted by every casino in a hundred miles, with a few bills and far more bruises to show for it.

Roman Torchwick was many things - juvenile delinquent, high school drop-out, cigar _aficionado_ \- but _easily discouraged_ was not one of them. So after he'd finished licking his wounds and dusted himself off, he made his way underground, to basements and bars, to anywhere people gambled outside of the stifling confines of regulation. Pull up a chair, open a beer, toss in an ante and _lean back_. After a rough few weeks he'd learned how to read gamblers just as easily as he'd cracked the codes of the casinos. How to spot a tell. How to hide your own, or better yet how to fake one. Body language and mind games.

He was very good at it.

And he was very bored.

They were just… So. Damn. _Dull_. Admittedly, Roman had rather high standards for people. He was hardly a misanthrope, but by the gods would it kill people to learn how to carry a conversation for five minutes? About something other than their ex-wives or their shitty jobs or their ungrateful kids? Roman liked people who could talk, who had a sense of style, a personality, a certain _je ne sais quoi_. Roman realized he was spending all his time seated around tables with people he didn't particularly like, cleaning out their pockets and dulling his mind in exchange. It was repetitive. It was drudgery. It was _work_.

So Roman first found his way to the dens of killers and thieves not out of intent but because the handful he met were quite frankly so much more interesting. They were more dynamic, more vivacious, more _alive_. Even the petty thieves had stories to tell, anecdotes as funny as they were incriminating. They had interesting tattoos and even more interesting weapons. And _nobody_ bitched if you lit up a cigar at the table.

They weren't actually all that better card players than the mooks Roman had started on, but he enjoyed their company all the same, and they actually enjoyed his. Roman continued to clean up but was generous with his winnings, never failing to buy a round of beers, or perhaps the attention of a particularly alluring performer. And if he happened to find himself in need of some extra cash he'd just discreetly relieve tourists of their possessions, or perhaps redecorate a gaudy mansion with a minimalist décor.

He ingratiated himself in record time, ever-ready with a new and eye-catching way to shuffle the deck, his chrome lighter always handy when you pulled out a cig. A beer, a dance, a taxi home, good ol' Roman always had you covered. He made friends with everybody, became any two criminals' mutual acquaintance. Which in turn made him a surprisingly valuable interloper, the rare creature that could traverse any territory, meet with any boss, hang with any crew. He was a diplomat, negotiator, translator, troubleshooter.

And he learned _everything_. Lock picking. ATM skimming. Hotwiring. Where to get fake IDs and counterfeit bills and guns that didn't come with those pesky serial numbers. He learned it all like the Grade A-student he very well could have been. He kept no fewer than six phones, which were constantly abuzz with demand for one of his plethora of services. And Roman Torchwick aimed to please. His reputation was built and solidified, and after a while people stopped asking whether his sense of theatrics or innate bombasticity would get him caught. Because no matter how many times the police dropped by to ask him a few questions, they _never_ took Roman back in the car with them.

Which, in a roundabout way, is how Roman came to be at a club he normally avoided like locusts one chilly Friday evening. A club populated entirely by trendy hipsters listening to terrible music and dancing like particularly-uncoordinated elephant seals. The staff all wore color-coordinated suits, which someone presumably thought made them look professional or intimidating, but to Roman's eye was straight out of a shitty mob movie they were desperately aping. Not every man can pull off a suit-and-tie look, after all, and the muscled thugs staffing the bar most certainly could not. The tailoring was simply _atrocious_.

A bouncer frisked him, managing to miss absolutely everything Torchwick had on him. Roman wasn’t paranoid, but then again better safe than sorry. Truth be told he had little enthusiasm for crimes that needed weapons. So _uncivilized_. And anyone could rob a bank with a gun. It took a different kind of thinking to steal from one unarmed. Still, weapons had their advantages, and Roman was reluctant to forgo them entirely.

He made his way to the basement quickly, though not quick enough to avoid exposure to the sounds and smells and gestures of the plebes. The Club's back offices were far more to his liking, plush leather furnishings and glasses filled with whiskey and bourbon instead of whatever grog was on tap. Roman didn't think himself a snob, just someone with more developed tastes than his usual compatriots. The poverty of his upbringing had only heightened his appreciation of luxury, and he could hardly help it if he had a discerning eye and a discriminating palate.

Roman slapped backs and shook hands, each according to their station, made polite gestures of deference and dropped self-deprecating jokes. He was among associates, if not friends. Middle-management of the city's organized crime, people who could see just a little more of the big picture. People who had learned that crime _could_ in fact pay. And more importantly, had learned what to spend their pay on. Drinks and cigars and ties that cost more than their underlings made in months. Oh, and topless women, all high heels and pantyhose, borrowed from the Club for the night.

He seated himself at a table after pleasantries were exchanged. The men here were older than him, by at least a decade on average, hard lives beginning to etch into their skins like worn parchment. Roman knew he was better than them. Smarter and more devious by a half, not trapped in a comfortable routine or entangled in unending feuds. They saw the world as It Was, while Roman saw it as It Is Going To Be.

Somebody shuffled a deck of cards with none of Roman's artistry, sending two to each player around the table while Roman made a show of lighting a cigar, contributing his own smoke to the room's communal haze. It was a familiar card game with some local variations: two hole cards, three in the community - and jokers were wild. His mind was already awash with tallies and odds, his eyes already picking up twitches and tells.

A tall woman slid up behind him almost immediately, hands running over his shoulders, her breath on his neck as she asked what his drink was. It was a crude attempt to throw him off his game, a distraction that Roman would never fall for, as annoying as the erection between his legs was. It was a petty display of power, he knew, the mobsters showing off the women they could pay for, like some sultan's harem of antiquity. Not that Roman was above renting a motel room with a contractually-obligated companion, but it was just so _crass_ , like the thieves with their guns again. Anyone could pay cash. Using only your looks and your charms was so much more interesting a challenge.

Roman, to his own remorse, was not here to win today. At least, not at cards. He was making a name for himself in the criminal underworld and management thought it was about time to do some proper vetting. The fact that he'd never spent a night in jail was more than a little suspicious given the track record he was known to have accumulated. In the privacy of his mind Roman had nothing but scorn for the ne'er-do-wells who wore their prison time like a badge of honor, like the fact that they'd been caught was somehow a _good_ thing. It was a rationalization of failure, not the entry to some secret society they all treated it like.

"You're not worried about any undo attention after what you did to the city councilor?" one of the men, a balding bloke named Dugal, asked. A man one step up from dealing drugs on the street corner. A man who also knew he had a very good hand.

" _Please_ ," said Roman, dismissively, as he slid a few more bills onto the table. "You and I both know if the police had a shred of evidence I'd be cooling my heels in a cell already." _And if I were a mole the police would have the evidence to wrap up every two-bit criminal operation in the city by now_ , Roman mused, idly wondering how big a reward he could negotiate for doing just that. Given how cheap the cops here were, probably not enough to offset the loss of future earnings. Which was tragic, in a way.

Call, call, fold, fold, raise. Roman let himself get suckered, or at least, appear to get suckered. Let his interrogator think he could string along Roman Torchwick, even if he was so giddy with excitement he was practically bouncing in his seat. The topless waitress returned with Roman's whiskey, which he took a generous swig of before forking over a few more bills. It _hurt_ to have to lose to a player as poor as Dugal.

The would-be dons laughed heartily as Roman's rather-expensive bluff was called, the grimace he flashed as his cash was clawed away not at all faked. Still, making your clients like you was always a good career move. And the wealth he stood to accumulate from this meeting would be more than a salve for the wounds to his ego.

They chatted amicably for another hour or so, Roman winning back a large chunk of his cash, though never in large enough volumes so as to be conspicuous. Forty minutes in the cards and liqueur had loosened their tongues, and they began discussing future jobs, if in a circuitous fashion. What did Roman consider the best way to transport a briefcase full of cash? Which investment vehicle would draw the least official attention? Which precincts were ripe for bribery, which neighborhoods had room to expand into? Roman answered with practiced ease, the collective knowledge of his many 'friends' on full display. He knew the lay of the land better than they did, and it was increasingly obvious.

The club owner stopped in at the two-hour mark, smartly-dressed and neatly-shaven, indicating that he needed the women back upstairs. A few shot flirty farewells to Roman on their way out, some of them even genuine. Once the door was shut behind them Roman walked to the small bar and poured himself another drink, the long game and longer conversation having killed whatever pleasurable buzz he had enjoyed.

"We're certainly not opposed to bringing you in on this new project," said another mobster dubbed Roderick, who had already made it clear that he knew less about his own protection rackets than Roman did. "Though your reputation as a freelancer precedes you…"

"Gentlemen, you should know by now that I'm a man of my word. If I say I'll devote myself exclusively to this enterprise then I mean exactly that." A silver-tongued lie, yes, but given their complete inability to spot when Roman was bluffing it was a lie he felt reasonably safe telling. And besides, they should've know that diversification was the first pillar of risk management.

"We'd like to bring ya in a lil' more _officially_ ," replied another man, shuffling the deck as he did. "Make you a _proper_ member."

"You mean…. with… _tattoos_?" asked Roman, his usual nonchalance evaporating in an instance.

"Err, _yes_ , that would be a part of it."

Roman almost stormed off then and there, wanting to boldly declare that there was absolutely no way in hell that he'd be desecrating his body with the faux-shamanistic iconography they'd inked into their skins. Flowers and flames and snowflakes and all the other doodles you'd expect from an angsty teenager's notebook. Not to mention he'd basically be signing his own arrest warrant. His dropped jaw earned him a few sideways glances, temporary paralysis leaving him open to a further line of questioning that was averted only when the lounge's door swung open again. Roman looked to see who had entered…

…and the most unlikely combination of pink and brown stared back at him. The cigar fell from his hand. Pale skin, striped hair, and the most unusual case of heterochromia Roman had ever laid eyes upon. She was clad only in lacy white lingerie, as if she weren't distracting enough already, moving with the preternatural grace of a carnivore stalking its prey.

"That's…"

"A girl who very much doesn't want to be found," interjected Dugal with a smile. Her reputation - and the half-dozen news segments - preceded her. Younger than Roman and with a police file thrice and thick, and that was no small boast. Juvenile delinquent turned criminal, much like Roman himself, albeit with a different set of specializations. She could get into any building in the city - embassy, bank vault, mansion, museum - and didn’t much care for partners. Also certifiably psychopathic, if the media reports were to be believed.

 _Neo_. Which was unquestionably not her real name, though nobody had found any documentation with a better answer. She was the best thief in town, and she didn't diminish herself working for others.

A girl after Roman's own heart, really.

"Aren't you a little overdressed?" teased Roderick. Her hand slid behind her back as she unhooked her bra without ceremony, letting it fall to the floor. She made no move to cover her small breasts, but Roman's eyes never drifted from her face. Neo was superficially stoic, almost apathetic, but Roman could read the subtle signs of rage across her face. There were few enough souls in this world that he thought twice about, even fewer that he genuinely respected, and here one of them was, at the beck and call of two-bit criminals who couldn't rob a nun if given a gun and diplomatic immunity.

_Wait, do nuns carry cash? Maybe that's a bad analogy... ___

"What's she doing here?" demanded Roman after he returned to his senses, a little more forcefully than he'd meant to. Neo took a seat on Roderick's lap, and was rewarded with a small yellow pill being popped into her open mouth.

"You like, eh?" said Roderick, pleased that he'd found a way to genuinely impress Roman when drinks and strippers could not. "Broke into some Big Pharma R&D lab about a week ago just as her safehouse was blown. One of my men had the good fortune to come across her in an alley, bleeding from the leg. We patched her up, keeping her someplace quiet in the meantime. For a price, of course."

" _Of course_ ," repeated Roman, trying to muster his usual nonchalance.

"She developed a taste for these things," continued Roderick, pulling another pill out of his pocket and flicking it across the table to Roman. Roman scanned the tablet, devoid of any identifying marks, before he put it back down, cautiously. "Stuff's so rare it doesn't even have a real name yet. Can't get it here, not with drug approval all tied up in red tape. Turns out our girl Neo is rather dependent on them."

"RB56?" asked Roman, catching the scowls tossed his way. "It's, what, an immunosuppressant, right?" He paused as heads tilted and eyebrows raised. "Yes, I know a six-syllable word, don't everyone look so surprised." He turned his attention back to the pill in front of him. "'Course if you _don't_ have a hyperactive immune system these pills will give you a high like Armageddon's tomorrow. Feds have been cracking down something mighty on lab techs supplementing their incomes by moonlighting as dealers."

He locked eyes with Neo. There was no trace of whatever injury she'd allegedly sustained. Her eyes were alert, if sunken. ' _Is that how they did it? You had a supplier who got burned, and these fuckers were the only ones who can keep you hooked up? You're mute, if the stories really are true, how you even found one dealer is a mystery for another time. Getting your hands on three of these a day….Gods…_

"Yes, well, we can keep her on a pretty tight leash with it. Even if she never talks she's the cheapest, ah… _entertainer_... we have, will do anything for these miracle pills. Isn't that right, girl?" Roderick reached around her torso and grabbed a breast, squeezing it none-too-gently. Roman was paying too close attention to miss the flicker of a grimace that flashed across Neo's face.

Roman, for reasons he would not be able to entirely explain even years down the road, was filled with a pure, fiery rage. This woman was, by any account, an artist. Every bank, mansion and museum was her medium, bare frames and emptied vaults her masterpieces. It was like stumbling on some renaissance painting on your way home and deciding to use it as toilet paper. It was a desecration, sacrilegious, an affront to all the misguided morals Roman stood for.

 _Barbarians_.

"How much for a night?" asked Roman, gesturing for another hand to be dealt. Neo glanced his way, and Roman realized she wasn't looking at his face but his hand, which was strumming the table absent-mindedly. That was his tell, from when he was too eager and inexperienced to know how to conceal it. He balled his fingers into a fist.

"A night?"

"Me. The girl. A bed. Probably some light jazz. Fuzzy handcuffs if we're feeling kinky."

"Sorry, Roman, she's for members of the Club only, VIPS," said Roderick, who Roman now pegged as Neo's handler. The apology in his voice was somehow not entirely convincing.

"Don't be such a prude," Torchwick shot back, trying to sound dejected. But his mind wasn't on the conversation. Or at least, not the one with the gangsters. Instead, he was focused on pressing his fingertips _very_ softly against the surface of the table. He was no longer strumming but tapping, purposefully and irregularly, his gaze averted as cards were dealt out. If he was lucky, it would look like he had a song stuck in his head, maybe the shitty Achieve Men remix he could still hear being blared from the Club's speakers above. If he _wasn't_ lucky…

 _Tap-tap_. I  
_Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-TAP. Tap-tap-tap-TAP_. HAV  
_TAP-tap-tap. Tap-TAP-tap. Tap-tap-TAP. TAP-TAP-tap_. DRUG

His eyes darted over to Neo, furtively and conspiratorially. ' _For the love of everything sacred_ please _know how to translate that_.' He paused. ' _Oh and please nobody_ else _in the room know, either_ ,' he appended to his unspoken prayer.

Neo's brow was furrowed, her face a confluence of ecstasy and doubt. She tilted her head, ever-so-slightly, a universal gesture of inquiry. Roman nodded, curtly and affirmatively, in wordless response. They played several more hands in relative silence, Roman feeling the weight of Neo's gaze upon him grow with every round.

"What's say we make this interesting," said Roman, surveying his newest hand with a disinterested glance. "You're almost out of petty cash and even closer to exhausting my attention." It was crass, it was disrespectful, and it was _challenging_. "I win, Neo comes homes with me tonight. She's back in your care by breakfast and I promise to use protection. I lose, I'll become the most over-qualified member of your little tree house club, tattoos and all." Several heads swiveled to face him. "Come on, guys, odds are in your favor, really."

"Man, Roman, if I new you had such a hard-on for this chick I'd have busted her out a lot earlier," said Donahue with a snort. "Though I do like the way you're thinking. Call it a deal."

"I can hardly pass up the chance to fuck what is basically a supervillain, can I?" replied Roman with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. He glanced at Neo, and somehow he knew _she_ knew he was lying. Which was in some ways good, as it meant she probably didn't think him a _complete_ scumbag.

 _That's just because she doesn't know you yet, Torchwick_ , a malevolent voice in the back of his head called out. And for a fleeting moment, Roman wondered if he was really any different than the idiots across the table from him, risking it all for a chance to impress a hot chick. Was this the resurfacing of fourteen-year old Roman, trying to woo the statuesque Cindy with his party tricks and delusions of chivalry? Yeah, Neo's lot in life sucked, but then again so did most people's, and Roman didn't exactly lose a lot of sleep worrying about them. And so what if he saved her, did he think Neo would swoon for him like she was some two-dimensional damsel? Reward him with a chaste kiss or a roll in the sheets? Tell tales of Roman Torchwick, the Knightly Thief?

Then he locked eyes with her, saw the way hers seemed to shimmer in the dim light.

 _Fuck it all_.

His mind was afire, thoughts blurring together in his head as he spotted, counted, calculated. His hand was good but not great, certainly not what he wanted to risk it all on but he couldn't afford to wait any longer, not when it was only a matter of time before some punk with less noble intentions than Torchwick decided they wanted some private time with Neo.

He ran the numbers based on the cards on the table, his odds of winning presently in the mid-forties. Two of his fellow players had 'shit all' written across their faces, putting him into the sixties, but in Roderick's hand he could spot a face card he'd discreetly creased earlier. Back down to the fifties. _Shit_.

He kicked himself for rushing this, for running in without a plan like all the amateurs he despised. How hard would it be to fully map out the operations of a group as simple as this? He'd put his ear to the ground and in a few days locate every front and safehouse, have a roster of every thug who'd ever worked for them. They probably kept her stashed in some apartment or basement, somewhere he could walk in, kill anyone who moved, and get the girl without breaking a sweat. The kind of job he planned in his sleep.

But no, here he was risking it all on a bad hand of cards like some paperback spy. Another card was flipped, dropping his odds down to the twenties. The _low_ twenties.

Roman moved to Plan B. Because he always had a Plan B, had set it in motion reflexively, never thinking he'd have to use it. He didn't like it, but that's why it was Plan _B_.

Roman had an anecdote he only infrequently told, a fragmentary extract from his not-so-distant childhood. Back when he'd still had some semblance of a family, still gone to classes and done his homework and thought staying up past midnight was a Really Big Deal. Back then, the coolest thing to Roman Torchwick had been magic, or more exactly, magicians. He'd been spellbound by the crisp professionalism he caught on obscure TV channels, by the exactitude of their illusions and the precision of their flourishes. He loved the world they seemed to live in, its black tuxedos and svelte assistants, their dry humor and their _sangfroid_. So he'd learned everything he could, rewatching his recordings again and again and again until he finally _saw_ what they were doing.

The reason Roman tended not to tell those stories, about the youthful obsessions that preceded his interest in casinos, was because he inevitably brought up the fact that he'd become _very_ good at palming cards. It was a great party trick, never failed to impress. The problem, of course, was that people tended not to want to play cards with him afterwards.

He'd slid the Joker up his sleeve almost without thinking during a lull between hands, when thoughts and gazes were elsewhere, just because he never knew if there would be a hand he _really_ needed to win. And now there was.

"Was' a' matter'? Cat got your tongue?" teased Dugal, Roman having fallen unusually quiet as the gears of his devilish mind _whirred_.

He let out a snort. "My apologies, gentlemen, it's just that every, oh, _twenty seconds_ I find myself looking her way," said Roman, glancing at Neo with an expression imitating lust. "She can be very…. _distracting._ "

 _Come on Neo, don't lose me now_. Roman desperately hoped she'd caught the subtext, the unusual cadence, the odd stresses he'd placed on a few words. He didn't have time for something more subtle and they'd be watching him like a hawk anyways. She cocked her head infinitesimally to the side, locking eyes with his in a nigh-invisible expression of inquisitiveness. Roman could only stare back, offering the curtest of nods in confirmation, little more than a twitch of his jaw.

His hand slipped into his jacket, pulling out a lighter and cigar, the latter of which he twirled between his fingers in a timeless, eye-catching distraction. It turned out Neo didn't have a much better idea for a diversion, simply throwing her arms around the nearest mobster - one who'd been watching Roman rather hawk-eyed, he noted approvingly - and planting a kiss square on his lips. In addition to blocking said thug's view entirely every head in the room (even Roman's, he could do what he was doing with his eyes closed) locked on to the spectacle, at the oddity of the stoic psychopath throwing herself at her captor.

"You want another pill already?" asked the recipient of Neo's attentions, (M-something?) as she began poking at a foiled sheet in his jacket's inner pocket. "You tryin' a double-dose?" Neo wordlessly nodded, giving what Roman thought was a mediocre performance - melodramatic and out-of-character, for starters - but it seemed to suffice for an audience of gangsters.

As the improv theatre was unfolding before him Roman moved like a ghost, an otherworldly efficiency to his motions as he set the card up his sleeve atop the worse of his hole cards, which in turn he effortlessly palmed. In one fluid motion he returned the card and his lighter to the inside of his jacket, the table left seemingly unchanged.

"Are we playing here, or what?" demanded Roman, the note of irritation in his voice entirely unfeigned. He didn't like the way Neo's mark was holding her, the predatory gaze in his eyes. The man was huge, almost six feet, with bulging muscles suggesting a love of either the gym or performance-enhancing drugs. One of his meaty, massive hands encircled Neo's wrist, his grip vice-like, and Roman wanted it to stop now.

"If she wants another pill she has to work for it, Roman, she knows that," replied Roderick, as one of his henchmen began dragging Neo to a nearby room whose purpose left little to the imagination. _What is she, a fucking_ animal _to you people?_

"Yeah, and I'm looking to win her here, so if you could have the common courtesy to not depreciate the merchandise while I'm still in the room," fired back Roman, his rage threatening to boil over.

The door slammed shut, cutting Neo off from Roman. Roderick was obviously put off by Roman's testiness and signaled wordlessly for the players to pick up the pace.

"Full house, queens full of fours," declared Roman, triumphantly flipping over his cards. A menacing silence seemed to fill the room as, one after the other, the other players confirmed that Roman's hand reigned supreme. With an almost psychotic grin Roman leapt to his feet, eager to claim his prize.

"That's a mighty impressive hand, considerin' we seem to be missing a few cards," chided Roderick, his dull, dead eyes bearing into Roman. Roman managed to suppress the flicker of worry that coursed through him, that somehow this harebrained excuse of a mafioso had somehow noticed something was up.

"I hate to say it, but a deal's a deal. And it's rather poor manners to accuse me of cheating immediately after I won." It was _accurate_ , yes, but still rude.

"And tryin' a cheat your hosts is even worse." He was angry, enraged by the offense to his ego, to whatever a two-bit mobster's delusion of honor was.

"Count the deck," said Roman, waving airily. "Search me if you like."

"Don't mind if we do," answered his host, as his gnarled hands began gathering up the cards on the table.

There was always a Plan C. Admittedly it lacked some of the refined sophistication of Plan B, but then again, it was a Plan _C_ for a reason.

Roman leaned across the table, as if he was intending to stare the man down. He brought the cigar to his mouth, keeping his fingers over his lips just a moment longer than the puff's length dictated. Roderick didn't dare move, lest he appear to be flinching from the smoke, or intimidated by Roman's intimacy.

"Well, Rod, I think we can all say it's been an eventful evening, and as much as I'd love to stick around-"

Nobody saw what happened next.

There was an old magic trick about hiding a razor in your mouth, pretending to be like the grizzled heroes of fiction who could literally spit out a knife when their enemies thought them helpless. That sounded like a good idea, right up until you developed a firsthand appreciation for just how many blood vessels are in your tongue. Still, after countless hours of practice and a few scars to his inner cheek that persisted to this day, Roman had acquired the ability to keep something small packed in the back of his mouth, behind his molars, while still sounding perfectly articulate. Wrapped in a small, leathery sheath, the blade was scarcely larger than one of his nails, if infinitely sharper. As the cigar had come to his mouth he'd slid the blade between his fingers, his lips slipping it out of the sheathe as he did. He'd nicked the inside of his lower lip as he'd done so - the blood would soon be coloring his teeth - but for a few seconds he had a blade in his hands and somehow nobody had noticed it.

Roman's hand moved slowly, almost lazily, so as not to startle with the appearance of a blow. For the smallest fraction of a second Roderick caught the glint of something shiny in the dim lighting of the room, a moment before the blade slid through his left jugular vein. It was more a stroke than a slash, a painter's melodramatic flourish, a blade his brush and tender flesh his canvas.

Roman Torchwick was not a killer. Oh, he'd killed people, sure, enough that he no longer remembered every face, but killing people was not _what he did_. He preferred having other people do the violence, people more disposable and less talented than he was. He was no sociopath, staying up all night plotting revenge fantasies that ended with his hands wrapped around another man's throat. Sure, there were plenty of people he figured the world would be better of without, but he wasn't going to obsess over it.

Roman Torchwick was, however, very good at killing people.

Roderick collapsed over the table, hands clutching at his neck as blood gushed forth uncontrollably. For a second nobody did anything, the image of their friend bleeding from his neck so unexpected and unexplainable it made them doubt reality.

Roman, however, was hardly as enthralled, and wasted not a moment. With his free hand he picked up a half-filled tumbler and threw it across the room, ice cubes and glass shattering into crystalline shards on a thug's face. He pivoted seamlessly to the nearest criminal, blocking a wildly wide blow and jamming his blade artlessly into the man's throat. His fingers lost their grip on the diminutive blade, but Roman was disarmed only for the brief moment it took for him to remove the snubnosed revolver strapped to the dying man's ankle.

Fiction always exaggerated. Were he a fictional hero he'd have known the make of the gun simply by how it fit in his hand, been able to determine the number of chambered bullets by weight alone. Instead, his fingers blindly groped the gun until he found what felt like the safety, before raising the pistol with an outstretched arm and squeezing the trigger.

_**BANG** _

Even over the furious pounding of his heart and the distant rumble of the club's speakers, the sound of a gunshot fired in a low-ceiling lounge briefly deafened Roman. Over the noise of the shot he didn't hear the other man's skull crack open, nor his lifeless body hit the carpeted floor. Flush with adrenaline, he turned the revolver on the room's living occupants, throwing himself against the opposite wall.

"Gentlemen," said Roman, pouring steel into his voice as he furiously tried to steady twitching muscles, to keep his words from wavering. "As much as I appreciate fine drink and finer company, I'm afraid this is where we part ways."

If real life were a mafia movie, the kind Roman was apt to watch on a rare night to himself to keep his mind from wandering, there'd have been a dozen guns leveled on him by this point, every man in the room carrying two hidden pistols or something. But the two men who'd been carrying guns were already dead. The survivors were men content to grow old and fat, who kept their weapons more as trophies than tools. A holster in the small of your back made sitting for hours on end uncomfortable, after all. They were unarmed and Roman knew it, but that didn't mean he wouldn't have to end one of them violently if their hearts were hotter than their heads.

"Who set you up to this? That Taurus sonnuvabitch? The rich cunt in red?"

"It's actually almost funny how badly you've misjudged the situation," said Roman with a growl, his eyes darting furtively to the door to the Club's dance floor as he spoke. Fate, luck, the gods above - for whatever reason nobody outside seemed to have heard the gunshot, or else were choosing to ignore it. He kept waiting for the knock, the bang on the door that would herald the arrival of a dozen goons and the end of his flight of fancy, but it never came.

"Neo!" Guided by his peripheral vision Roman found the door to whatever imitation bedroom this Club had, keeping the pistol leveled on the still-breathing mobsters as he moved. With his free hand he found the doorknob and gave it a twist, but it was locked and unyielding, so he had to settle for elbowing the wooden panels instead. Had the mobster on the other side heard what was happening, was he standing on the other end with a semi-automatic preparing to turn Roman into chum? Or had he been so deep in Neo that the mêlée outside had escaped his notice, that he thought them still seated around the table playing with a full deck of cards…

The mental image created in Roman's mind - fleeting thought it was - filled him with rage, causing him to strike the door with another ineffective blow. His mind began racing as to how he could get Neo out before she spent another second being violated. Shooting a lock (almost) never worked, and he was probably down to five bullets as it was, which he'd need if his prisoners made some idiotic bid for freedom. And as it was he probably couldn't kick in or break down the door without a few moment's efforts, during which he'd be easy prey for a surprise attack. He had no qualms about killing everyone else in the room, but doing so quickly and quietly was a hurdle he wasn't sure how to overcome…

Before he could stew in his quagmire any longer he heard a soft click and saw the knob spinning round. Roman took a half-step back and unthinkingly turned to face the threshold, his arms falling halfway to his sides, the revolver pointed around where a man's hips would be.

 _Neo_.

It was Neo, barely coming up to his sternum, perhaps the most wondrous soul Roman had ever laid eyes on. Mismatched hair, mismatched eyes, naked, and covered in someone else's blood. In the dim lighting she practically glistened in it, her chest rising and falling softly, unhurriedly, fearless. She tilted her head and _grinned_ , and it was the most beautiful thing Roman Torchwick had ever seen

"Neo…." 

The girl's brow furled angrily, causing an already-agape Torchwick to sink even deeper into bewilderment, before Neo slipped between him and the doorframe with barely a flicker of movement, almost ethereally. There was a flurry of movement behind him, and Roman just had time to spin around and spot a blade being loosed from Neo's hand - an already blood-soaked combat knife that Roman had somehow completely failed to notice. The blade - some military surplus piece, without sheen or shine - sailed through the air with uncanny speed, before embedding itself in a mobster's skull.

Roman raised the pistol, his finger beginning to pull back the trigger, realizing only belatedly that some idiot had made a dive for Gunshot Victim #1's weapon.

"You are not the brightest bananas in the bunch, are ya punks?" said Roman, half-yelling despite himself. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins once more and he was really not in the mood for idiotic stunts. "There's only one Big Damn Hero here, and that's me, and I don't take kindly to being upstaged."

Neo casually strolled over to the man she'd just killed, and with more visible effort than you would've expected she extracted the embedded knife with a sickening slosh. If Neo was at all fazed by the blood and brain matter before her, the way she was idly twirling the knife between her fingers betrayed nothing. 

"Speaking of heroes, though," said Roman, lowering his voice as his eyes darted to Neo, "you're not exactly a run-of-the-mill damsel-in-distress now, are you?"

Neo spared him a glance and a predatory grin, more alive than any person he'd ever seen. Whatever damaged and dependant plaything these suited shits had grown used to was gone entirely. And as Neo stopped spinning the blade, its hilt coming to a comfortable, familiar rest in her palm, Roman wondered if that girl had ever existed in the first place.

"Now normally before I see a woman naked I've bought her dinner and a movie," said Torchwick, his silvery tongue restarting almost unconsciously, filling a silence that had grown too large. "But I think we missed the last screenings and I couldn't get reservations at Scarlatina's, so I'm afraid these heads on a platter will have to make do."

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing, Torchwick?" demanded Dugal, one of the surviving mobsters, sweat practically pouring from him. Neo took one step towards them, corralled in a corner by Roman's pistol, her strides a ballerina's.

"I'm not doing anything anymore," said Roman with a wry grin, his pistol arm lowering slightly as he spoke. "I simply put Neo in a position where she can solve her own problems."

"Torchwick," another practically hissed, eyeing Neo like she was a bear, a wolf, a serpent. "That girl is psychotic! She'll kill us all!"

"And you're the ones who thought it'd be fun to ride a tiger," spat back Roman, the edge of a shout on his voice again in response to the unapologetic pleas for pity. "It's not my fault you didn't think through what would happen when you got off."

"Be reasonable," pleaded a third, infinitely more afraid of the petite girl with a knife than the grown man with a gun. "We can reach an agreement. What do you want, Torchwick? Drugs? Women? Money?" He was practically tripping over his words in a hurry to beg Roman.

Roman seemed to consider it for a moment. "I have to say I'm rather a fan of the jacket," replied Roman, adopting a tone of empty warmth. "Pretty hard to make white work but I honestly think you found a way."

"You like it? It's yours! Please!" The man half-scrambled out of the long white coat, tossing it in Roman's direction. Roman half expected him to try the old trick of tossing something at your adversary and then charging them, so he let the coat fall to the floor without his gaze wavering, but his captives were more desperate than deceptive at this point. Truth be told he thought the jacket a little too flashy, but before they left he needed something in his size and not covered in blood….

Neo paused for a second, glancing over her shoulder to give Roman an expression of polite patience. She didn't need to speak, her thoughts were clear as day to him. _Is there anything else you want from them?_ she practically screamed with her eyes. _Because I'm going to get started otherwise._

"They're all yours, Neo," said Roman with mock disinterest, gesturing with his revolver.

"Wait, but… Torchwick… the coat!"

Roman shrugged. "We've been over this, guys. _I_ am not your problem. It's our pint-sized wonder girl here you needed to make a deal with."

And with a twirl and a flourish, Neo's blade traced a line across a man's throat. To Roman's mild surprise even now they were still too afraid to do anything, petrified of the girl before them.

"We can't reason with her!" pleaded Dugal, his voice half a sob. "All she wants to do is kill us all!"

Roman strolled over to the poker table and picked up a cigar, clenching it between his teeth. With a few coaxing sparks his lighter's butane flame ignited, and he touched the cigar's tips to it, taking a decadent puff.

"Ain't that a bitch."


	2. Chapter 2

Roman took a final drag of his cigar, proceeding to toss the remaining nub into a distant trash bin, where it landed with a resounding clung. He wasn't worried about trace DNA evidence he might leave, not when the entire lounge was already awash with a pool of bodily fluids, and he'd be skipping town soon anyways.

What worried him was the fact that he'd had enough time to leisurely enjoy a cigar in its entirety.

They were in a small, cramped back office that was now stuffed with a few more bodies and _way_ more blood than Roman was entirely comfortable with. He himself didn't think Neo's knife play had needed to be so…. _elaborate_ … but then it wasn't the role of the amateur to critique the master. And Neo _definitely_ knew what she was doing.

He was also beginning to wonder just how much longer they could go without any more of the Club's staff intruding, having stretched their luck at least twice already, but Neo's unhurried nonchalance made it clear that she wasn't worried about being interrupted. Roman had lent her his undershirt when it became clear that finding anything without bloodstains was going to be a serious problem, and even that was _adorably_ oversized on Neo. Wearing his shirt and nothing more, she pattered about barefoot like this was a college dorm, having used proffered handkerchiefs and bottles of water to clean the worst of the blood off her skin. The girl was now sifting through folders and binders with a detached, almost absent-minded look on her face, though Roman recognized the glint in her eye of a professional at work.

"As much as I enjoy reading someone else's diary," began Roman, unable to keep the nervousness entirely from his voice, "we're living on borrowed time here before some goon gets bored or horny and pokes his head in." Roman had already locked the door, which would hopefully buy them some time, but he was really hoping to avoid being besieged entirely.

Neo glanced his way, her expression neutral apart from one eyebrow raised in bemusement. _I'm trying to work, so if you're going to be whiny please do it elsewhere._

Roman let out an exacerbated sigh, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Right, sorry, I forgot I'm just the pretty one here." He tried not to go back to thinking about how fucked he was. They'd killed close to a dozen people and still hadn't left the building, which was the kind of body count that was too large for anyone to cover up, even if they'd wanted to. It was only a matter of time before the police started investigating. There was no time (or way) to clean the site, which meant fingers would eventually be pointed at Roman.

He could vanish easily enough - he maintained an apartment-cum-safehouse filled with everything from fake passports to professional cosmetic kits - but that would mean he was pulling up his roots entirely. If he wanted to get back in the game he'd be practically starting from scratch. No network, no informants, no local knowledge…

He'd thrown everything away, all for some girl he'd never met, who couldn't even talk to him, and who was currently rifling through a filing cabinet wearing nothing but his shirt.

Somehow, he couldn't get mad.

"You know, this would go a lot faster if you told me what you were looking for," called out Roman, as he watched Neo's fingers gracefully slip between folders and papers. She let out what Roman took to be a growl, but might have been just a stifled cough. "I know you can't talk but could you… write it out? Mouth it? Interpretive dance? Is this like a 'no talking' thing or a 'no explicit communication' thing, because I gotta say that while I'm pretty good at reading non-verbal cues this could be a problem down the-"

Roman's tirade was cut short by Neo standing up, straight and triumphant, a manila folder held proudly in her hand. Roman plucked it from her fingers with an unspoken ' _yoink_ ', eyes skimming over the folder's label before moving on to the assortment of disorganized papers within.

"Cinder Fall, Network & Activities," read Roman, flipping to the first few pages. "Don't recognize the name." An organization chart with more than a few ????s thrown in. The next few pages were a bit more useful. Bank statements. Contact sheets. A photocopied map of the city, annotated with details of her areas of operations. A depressingly short biographical sketch. The folder was a dossier, the best research file a two-bit organization like the one he'd just decimated could put together. Assuming it all wasn't an elaborate pile of BS, the fact that there could be a shadowy figure making inroads into the city - and that Roman was completely unaware of them - was intriguing.

"This is what you wanted, eh?" asked Roman, handing the folder back to Neo. Neo took the folder from him in wordless agreement, sliding it into a battered briefcase along with a few other spoils of war. "How did you even know this Cinder lady existed, that wannabees like Roderick would even have anything on her?"

Neo offered him another taunting smile, this one infuriatingly devoid of answers. "Did you learn about it after you got trapped here, stuck with the only suppliers of RB56 you could find?" Roman had actually seen Neo take the RB56 pills, and given that she wasn't high out of her mind at the moment that meant she actually needed them. Which meant she couldn't have been faking an addiction to trick the goons into thinking they had the upper hand, that she was harmless once taken in. Not unless…

"Just how long a con was this, Neo?" asked Roman. Neo, as usual, was silent, but her mischievous smirk said more than enough.

A mixture of awe and fear coursed through Roman for the better part of a minute, before the source of those competing emotions gestured to the door. Roman sighed for what felt like the hundredth time in this implausibly-long day.

There were bodies all over the lounge, and only a matter of time before they were discovered. The plan to get out was simple. First, open the door. If anyone was outside, lure 'em in and take 'em out. Otherwise, get back to the main floor, where hundreds of idiotic dancers still flailed aimlessly about, separating Torchwick from the exit. When he was in the thickest part of the crowd, he'd discreetly fire another shot from his appropriated revolver, hopefully starting a panicked exodus. He and Neo would vanish in the streets amid the confusion. Hit up Roman's safehouse for new identities.

Whatever happened after that was beyond the scope of Roman's planning. Chess had never been a skill of his.

Roman's hand came to a rest on the handle of the door separating the staff lounge from the club proper. "Ladies first?"

With a devilish grin and a mocking bow, Neo accepted.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

Roman Torchwick's safehouse was a backup apartment almost too small to fit them both comfortably, the kind of place he dropped in on only to deposit something illicit and make sure the landlady hadn't come snooping. There was a single cot - Roman never having bothered to move much in the way of proper furniture - which, after a short shower, Neo had contently plopped herself upon. He'd already tossed her a giant plastic bag filled with RB56 pills he'd given up trying to find a buyer for - something he'd haggled off some university kid so long ago he'd almost forgotten he had them. He'd watched as Neo had flicked one high into the air, catching it on her tongue with a self-satisfied smirk.

Roman let out a sigh. It had been a long trek back, the two having taken a circuitous, winding path to make sure they couldn't be easily followed or traced. Once shit hit the fan Roman had little doubt that the local police - incompetent as they were - would be able to find his little hideout with enough time and manpower, like monkeys on their typewriters.

Which left him with one of two options. Options A was to skip town - maybe somewhere sunny? - and start anew. Option B, which had hitherto never existed, necessitated trusting Neo and whatever her gamble involving this Cinder Fall was. Which he had to admit was intriguing, even if there was a whiff of desperation about it.

A problem for tomorrow.

"Can I get you a drink?" asked Roman, finding his way to a stash of bottles that _may_ have entered the country without the proper import licenses. He paused, halfway through pouring himself a glass of bourbon. "Wait, how old are you again?" he asked, as if he'd ever known in the first place. Neo just tilted her head quizzically. "Yes, I know the murder and arson are probably going to be more significant, I'm just curious if I can add 'contributing to the delinquency of a minor' to my rap sheet."

He turned around, swishing the liquid in his glass absent-mindedly, to find Neo scowling at him. _I'm not some kid_ her pout said, _you don't have to worry about me_. He idly wondered if he'd bruised Neo's ego by seeing her the way he had back at the Club, in a position of some vulnerability and exploitation. Was she embarrassed to have been rescued by him? _Had_ he even rescued her?

Roman returned to his liquor stash and the less complicated problem of trying to guess Neo's drink. She seemed like the martini type, but he doubted he had the supplies to make one here…

The sound of fabric gently hitting the floor snapped him back to reality. With a soft, almost remorseful sigh, Roman set his glass down and turned to face Neo, the girl now stark naked before him.

"Neo…" Roman said, as the petite killer took his hands in hers, tiny fingers interlacing his. Through the thin walls of the apartment complex, his neighbor's music began drifting in…

♪ _They see you as small and helpless_ ♪  
♪ _They see you as just a child_ ♪  
♪ _Surprise when they find out that a **warrior** will soon run wild._ ♪

Her lips pressed against his. And she tasted like ice cream.

Some endless amount of time later, Roman figured out how she'd done it. How she'd practically straight-armed off his hands to close the distance between their heads, bringing her lips level with his. But for a while all he could do was breathe her in, transfixed by the press of her body against his.

Then, dropping back to her feet, Neo's hands began drifting south, having no trouble finding the contours of his erection. With a mischievous grin she began working on his pants, dexterous fingers quickly finding a way inside.

And then Roman asked the question he never had when a girl started handling he penis. He asked, "Why?" 

Neo shot him an expression of mild perplexion, as she began pressing skin against skin. _Just a way of saying thanks_

"You don't, ah, owe me anything, you know?" Roman found himself taking a half-step back. That quizzical look again. _What, pretensions of chivalry now_? And Roman knew he wasn't exactly a gentleman's gentleman. What did he care if a woman slept with him out guilt or to settle a debt?

Or for pills she needed to live.

His pants were pooled around his ankles now, Neo's hands moving over his member with a silken touch. His breath caught in his throat.

"Neo…" The girl looked up. She'd sunken to her knees, back straight, her lips practically hovering above his member. He could feel her breath on his skin.

He stared into those mismatched eyes. He had to be better. For Neo.

"Not that this isn't some personal fantasy of mine," he began, his hand finding her hair, still damp from the water of her shower, "and not that I really, really, _really_ don't want to go where you're going." He let out a strange, slightly strangled noise, as if suppressing a whimper of pain. "But wait to see if you actually like me first, okay?"

And with a flurry of motion Roman pulled his pants back up. He stared down at Neo, her expression enigmatic, unreadable.

"I'm going to sleep," he said, trying to keep his mind from realizing what he'd just turned down. "Got a busy day ahead of us and my circadian rhythms are out of whack enough as it is." He found a spare blanket and tossed it on the floor, bunching up a few sweaters to use as a pillow. One of his less-advertised skills was the ability to sleep almost anywhere; the floor of his apartment was a mild inconvenience.

Neo patted the small cot she'd sat upon, and this time Roman could make out the traces of guilt flickering across her face. "Cot's barely big enough for one, sweetheart, and you're the guest of honor."

Neo, of course, couldn't let him off that easily. Nope, she insisted on finding a spot on the floor beside him, curling up into a ball, somehow making herself even smaller. She looked impossibly cute, staring at him with those hypnotic eyes of hers, as if waiting to see if he was actually going to sleep. Trying to see if he was bluffing.

"What, you're going to insist on sleeping on the floor if I do?" He already knew the answer, but Neo nodded playfully anyways. "You realize it makes absolutely no sense for both of us to sleep on the floor, right?" She flashed him that beautiful grin of hers. _I'm not the one being a stubborn ass_.

Roman pulled himself to his feet and made his way over to the cot. As soon as he lay down he was completely unsurprised to hear Neo slipping in beside him, managing to wedge her lithe body between his and the wall. He felt the heat radiating from her body, heard the faint sighs of her peaceful breaths. She had a look of supreme contentment on her face, and Roman wouldn't change that for all the jewels in the world.

"You keep your hands to yourself, alright?" said Roman, catching one last smirk from Neo before he closed his eyes for the night.

She didn't, but Roman didn't feel like complaining in the morning.

He dreamt of ice cream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your feedback is of course always appreciated. Comments on characterization, comments on plot, comments on dynamics and aesthetics. Even writing a single sentence to let me know how you felt means a surprising amount to me.
> 
> One of my goals is to write a noir RWBY story of the same style, atmosphere and quality as CourierNinetyTwo, specifically the Mafia Blake AU fics "And the Raven Shall Dwell in It" and "An Abode for Jackals". This is not that story, but hopefully a step in the right direction. Still need a lot of work before I can write prose of that beauty.
> 
> Spent probably more time on this than I should have given the results, need to get back to writing my bread-and-butter smut.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Gentleman Thief](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845168) by [Lt_Kickbutt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lt_Kickbutt/pseuds/Lt_Kickbutt)




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